


Erosion

by eternalbreath



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:57:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbreath/pseuds/eternalbreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irvine doesn't forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erosion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lassarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lassarina/gifts).



> For the prompt: _Seifer/Irvine. Irvine has more memories than the rest of them, and Seifer didn't use GF much. What is it like for them, remembering more than the others? Or, 'You're not a damn lone wolf. Quit pretending you are.'_

"You're looking sour."

Irvine glances away from the fuzzy picture on the television screen as Seifer takes the stool next to him. "Now, you can't think I'm going to share my mood with the likes of you." Dollet's bar and grill boasts just the right brands of beer, greasy food, no one who wants to hound Irvine for an autograph and low lighting, but Seifer buses tables here now and the management seems to like him well enough to let him badger customers on breaks.

"Well, I'm not your first choice," Seifer says. "Or the second or third — would you really want Zell or Squall to comfort you? Can I cross them off the list? But maybe I could have the number four slot."

"Fuck right off," Irvine mutters, and brings his almost-empty glass to his lips.

"Strange to see you in here today." Seifer spins a discarded lid in a rat-tat-tat circle. "Today of all days, if you know what I mean."

Irvine presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Don't do this," he says. "Let's just declare a ceasefire for one day, if you please."

Seifer is silent, which doesn't mean anything good necessarily, as Irvine has learned the last two months of Seifer's employment. He can never tell when Seifer will set out to bother him or when he'll leave well enough alone, but he can weather it well. He's good at small talk, good at pretending, at wearing a kind face, good at the sharp banter Seifer doles out, but he's not prepared for it today. He doesn't have the goddamn patience.

Seifer eventually leaves, sliding off the stool, vanishing out of Irvine's field of vision. _Good riddance_ , Irvine thinks, and signals for another drink, and then another after that. He watches a chocobo race with his fifth, and after that he stops counting or paying attention to anything until he feels a hand on his shoulder. There's only one person who touches him here.

"I meant it, earlier," Irvine says, blinking up into the glow of the neon lights advertising their brands. "Not today."

"It's not today anymore," Seifer says. "It's two in the morning and closing time and you've been drooling on the bar for an hour."

Irvine registers the twinge in his neck and the damp on his cheek. There's no bartender in sight and the screen above his head is snow, the station off-air. "Hate this day," he says, as Seifer sets a glass in front of him.

"Drink that."

"After hours drinks?" Irvine asks. "Are you allowed to do that, if you're only a busboy?"

"It's water, genius," Seifer snaps. "God, you are the worst drunk, you're worse than any other customer in here except for the ones that vomit everywhere."

The visual is a sudden flash to Irvine's mind, and he's been here when it's happened and it's on instant reply now. "Don't—" Irvine freezes and grips the bar, stomach roiling. "Don't talk about it."

"Drink the water, Kinneas," Seifer orders. "Just do it."

Irvine is good at following orders. Go here, Xu says, shoot that guy, Squall demands, bring me a cute gift, Selphie asks, don't forget! Irvine is excellent at orders and he downs the first glass of water and then the half glass Seifer shoves into his hands afterward and somewhere between the bottom of the glass and Seifer swearing at him he's being leaned against a stucco wall in the dark as Seifer does something to a door.

"Let me tell you, you have shit friends, do they not have calendars?" Seifer asks, but Irvine supposes it's rhetorical. "They have computers that will do that shit for you now, Esthar mass produces them, they fit in your pocket and have touch screens."

"This couch," Irvine says when Seifer dumps him on it. "It's so nice."

"I stole it from a street corner after someone threw it out," Seifer says from somewhere above him. "But thanks."

"This day, though." Irvine wriggles so his body is less twisted, even though he can't manage to get his feet onto the cushion. "I fucking hate this day. And beer."

"Oh no, you love beer. Beer is the friend you spent your goddamn day with, because your friends apparently don't believe the research or maybe just don't give a shit." Seifer lifts Irvine's legs for him, tugs on his boots, and then the snap of his pants. Irvine wonders if he might be more interested if his dick wasn't also drunk, like every part of him, so drunk. "So I'm left babysitting you as you drink yourself in a stupor because they forgot."

"Didn't mean it." Irvine hopes so. He could have reminded them, too, but he didn't want to burden them. He didn't want to be a bother, he didn't want to be that guy, that guy who needs recognition for what, surviving another year? It was just a year, a year filled with fighting and death and too much of it, too many missions and not enough rest, too many monsters in his head to make him better faster stronger, the thrum of them in his brain long after they were gone.

"Thieves," he says, mostly into Seifer's neck as he works Irvine's arms out of his coat. "Fucking thieves, that's all they are, why do they use them?"

"Who knows," Seifer says, and jams a pillow underneath Irvine's head. "I stopped trying to understand that fucking place two years ago. Not that you'll remember this in the morning, but I would advise you to get out before the brain tumor."

Irvine reaches up and grabs Seifer's arm, but somehow manages his ear instead. "Wait."

"Ow." Seifer doesn't move. "What?"

"I never forget," Irvine murmurs. "I remember too much and it—they don't—" He can't find the words at all, the references from when they were four, seventeen, five, eighteen, the time Zell broke his arm the summer after the war, the kiss he had shared with Selphie that winter festival, Rinoa's miscarriage two months ago, Quistis's short fling with Nida that had ended amicably last week before they both went off on missions piled down with GF, things now recorded only in Irvine's memory and medical records that only Dr. Kadowaki has seen. It seems so sad, just so damn depressing and Irvine knows like he knows the kick of his gun it's not just the alcohol making him want to sob like a baby.

"I know," Seifer says, _Seifer Almasy_ , Irvine thinks. Squall had blinked at Irvine for several seconds when he had mentioned it after he had first spotted Seifer working, the _who?_ echoing between them, before Squall remembered, smiling and shaking his head a bit, amused at himself.

"It's not funny," Irvine tells Seifer's throat. "No laughs here."

"None at all, this is the most depressing fucking thing that I've seen in weeks," Seifer says, and untangles himself. He fluffs a blanket over Irvine, the rushing cool air followed by the scratch of the blanket against his bare legs. He kneels down next to the couch when Irvine blinks up at him and Irvine reaches out and touches his face, because even if they forget, Irvine won't. He'll remember.

"You're so drunk," Seifer says, and it sounds almost fond. He nuzzles into Irvine's hand, smiling. "Happy birthday, for what it's worth. I'll make you a hangover breakfast in the morning."

Irvine's chest aches. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you for remembering."

Seifer gives his hand back. "Always will," he says, and murmurs a quiet good night before turning out the lights.


End file.
